Laytontober 2019
by JoSeBach
Summary: Laytontober 2019. From a post in Tumblr made by charmanderxerneas. #laytontober Twisted Fates AU is created by Notllorstel. Check out on Tumblr.
1. 01: Puzzle

The puzzle is not made by me.

* * *

*****ROLAND LAYTON POV*****  
You know, I've never told you how you dealt with the great change from Bronevs to Laytons. Probably you don't remember it, because you were just 4.

You don't have a short memory? Really? Then you must remember perfectly the time we went fishing with uncle Doug.  
How not? It was just 25 years ago! If you don't remember this, then ima- Don't call me old, I've still a lot of years forward! Then again let me tell you the story, no? Surely it will surprise you.

Anyway, I was saying; you were really closed, I remember that, when we arrived to bring you you didn't want to leave your brother, such a good lad. Even in the car, when we tried to chat up, but it was pointless, you forced yourself to keep everything in you. But apparently there was one thing you couldn't refrain to answer. And guess what it was.

No no, you're astray. For reminding you I'll repeat it.

_"I'm bright but I'm not clever_  
_I burn but I'm not a bonfire_  
_I sound like I'm a celebrity but I'm not famous_  
_I twinkle but I'm not an eye_  
_I can be seen at night but I'm not the moon."_

You answered the same way as now, instantly. You surprised us a lot, Hershel, because even if you were feeling far and lonely, you gave us the greatest moment. You're first words for us were _the stars_.


	2. 02: Tea time

_**Marina Wordsworth POV**_  
The forthcoming hours through formulas, scribbles and mistakes are the cause of my further permanence under those warm covers for ten minutes (I guess), other than the bus loss.

After losing the hope in using a more handy vehicle, I've walked all the mile long that separates me from Triton's home. I still don't understand why he chose to help me. Sure, nothing changes the fact that miss Oswalds is an old harpy obsessed by tests, but nothing obligated him to offer, rather nothing prevent him to ignore my requests of help.

Yet, here I am, in front of his house, apartment 2. I eye the wristwatch: nine and forty-seven, the long hand go south. Later than this... I've almost not enough courage to knock, but I can't cancel on him when he's sacrificing his weekend for me. I inhale, and knock three times.

A light "Coming" penetrate the door. Yes, that's really him, but he doesn't seem upset...  
The handle rotates, revealing a kid with independent hair and a blue and long night-gown with a teddy bear's face on the shirt, surely not suitable to a stranger's eyes. It's really off-putting, I just can't believe it.

"Sorry, but you know, I woke up laye, eheh." And no, I wasn't the one saying those words. Despite that, he doesn't look embarrassed.  
A pleasant hiccup starts after the funny coincidence and my foolish worry, becoming a free laughter. He follows suit.

"Well, I was about to say that! Hahaha!"

After the onomatopoeic chat, I find myself on the table, wanting to keep him company during breakfast; the fragrant golden water and the crisp to the eye cookies stimulate my appetite that gurgle, having forgotten the fasting.  
A saucer decorated with soft colors keeps the cup in front of me, while the plate with the cookies comes closer. Luke looks at me confused by my hesitation.

"Come on, eat. After all, a brain works better with a full stomach." the says to me, followed by an elegant sip.

I envelope barbarically the cup, still boiling, I blow a bit on the top and drink from the golden spring.

I'm surely ignorant about tea culture, but there no need of a genius to realise that this goodness is tasty.


	3. 03: Ship (05)

I switched the 5th and the 3rd day's prompts because today, 6 years ago, a disaster involving ships and deaths happened and still happen.

* * *

Sharp yells pounced on the general tension, generated by the utter panic and by frightened shouts of who has its own life at risk. The waves cause another shake, restating their nightmare as actual. Steps moved away loudly, unknown to among them, skin against skin for saving it. But a fifteen-years-old boy helped a pregnant woman, of whom he just knew her name, Kamilla, two strangers with dopamine in the blood, cold sweat.

"Come on, push!". The producer's pain infused even just by the vibrations and tremors.

Luke, when he entered in that ship for London 3 days prior, surely he wasn't expecting a catastrophe, like the crew and all people. Even less Kamilla believed the birth would have been one-month premature, and yet destiny does dirty jokes.  
The woman laid exhausted on the couch, the soft pillows useless on their work. The boy gave her instructions to follow, the formality lost in the steam for the new's future. And after agonizing minutes in pain, wet rags, lifeboat lost and omertà (for some sacrifice) for the good of the many, there it was the cry they'd been waiting for: finally she born.  
"You made it, Kamilla!" Luke exclaimed, with the only thing he knew of the woman, her name.  
The fallen water from the basket and the pressing force on them reminded the situation they were in, her hand hanging from the side, her gaze off and that smile of who uses its last efforts showed.

"Luke, thank you. Now, go save yourself and her..."  
"But-"  
"Do it for me. I slow you down, now go.", her eyes bright and confident.

The youngster's eyes sparkled too, but for other reasons. Then the mother's eyes left their last gaze on the crying bundle.

Luke searched for the lifeboat that he'd seen while he'd gone bringing water, but sank with the est wind. Desperate looked around, finding out a life ring instead. Not the best, but instinct obligated him to take the life-jacket and the life preserver for the open sea. The infant was already asleep, oblivious of the destiny of her mother, owner of a wreck, the sank ruin her coffin.

The following day they were found by a fishing boat, a new light now on the eyes of him and of the little Kat.


	4. 04: Time

_Ed Ora Io Domando Tempo Al Tempo (Ed Egli Mi Risponde- Non Ne Ho!)  
And now I ask time to the Time (And he replies me- I don't have it!) - BMS (Darwin)_

* * *

_**Claire Folley POV**_

It's all so wrong.  
They say time heal every wound, but actually here it's time the problem. Right, I haven't got the scars my corpse endured 10 years ago. Right, it's giving me "another chance"... At least that's what Dimitri says. That madman wants to build the machine by himself, desperate, the age shows cruelty on his features. I've never seen him with these bags under the eyes even in lab exams time, he's not as lucid as a time.  
A time that for me passed in few instants, for them are innumerable sleep-less nights, agonizing days, memories that have time to reemerge and salt of the wounds.

Despite my efforts on reassuring Dimitri (and maybe even myself), I too feel this itching: the body in whatever way knows that, as it came back in the world, something is wrong and tries everything to inform me of this not-new knowledge: episodes of narcolepsy, pain on all the limbs or mere instantaneous tiredness aren't that rare. Dimitri sadly witnessed to several of them, even more frequent, reason why he never stopped to... wait, to do what? If it's the machine's construction, last time I'd seen him lay a hand on the blueprints it was already months ago, now he manages only with this theatre's bureaucracy, theatre of which not everybody knows its role and its part.  
I tried to talk sense into his head, to reminding him the work we must do for my salvation, for their salvation, but he didn't listen, rather he threw me out from the Pagoda. "Can't see I'm working?! One day you'll thank me!". He's going crazy.  
It's been three days since then. And in these few hours, I've found Hershel (still with that hat...) and a child on his side, never seen before.

Anyway, luckily Allen is not aware of it but, with the faints, I have some visions... memories that I don't own, I've never seen and that probably no one has seen today yet.  
Firstly I've found it difficult to believe it, but how can it be that I knew that Hershel would had been in that road, toward Chinatown? It would be a mere coincidence, if it weren't that I knew the lighthouse would have revived and destroyed lives. Miracles never happen twice.

I fly over the theatre atrium, other images on my eyelids: Hawks rocketing from the falling car and Clive on the floor after a blow by a foil. I leave the airplane, bidding goodbye for the last time Paul, my greatest and nearest friend. I force easily the crank of the door. I follow every step the fastest, the breath already late.

I glimpse the surveillance room, the two children frightened, Hershel upset after Clive's statement just finished. The door opens loudly, drawing the attention to the steps.  
"Celeste!"  
"Follow me, I know how to stop him." It's time to put an end to this mistake.

* * *

_I must say the song reminds me more Monte d'Or, but the title suits perfectly here._


	5. 05: Hat (03)

Mr Albatross eyes pensive the window of the shop, seeing reflected the image of his son donning that khaki cap, what a better gift for his 13rd birthday. He sinks the hands in the pockets, counting pressing on the notes. Even if not economically stable, he wants the best for his child, even if it means doing overtimes on the weekends. The image of his happy son gives him a smile. He steps in the shop, the tables, hangers and walls decorated with the hats of every taste, colour, fabric, shape. Maybe actually this is the Mad Hatter's house, the costumers lost like Alice.  
The operator is apparently busy, probably asked by a client.  
There it is in fact a young woman, on the thirteens, dressed with a white coat, on the counter a too high black box.

_What in the blazes has she bought?!_

"Thank you very must for not refusing my too strange request."  
"No problem, it was funny actually. And besides your imagination is great, really. It will be perfect. Good luck!"  
"Thanks again, and good day!"

And the door closes behind. Now the operator is available.

"Good day sir, how can I help you?"  
"Oh - he startles, embarrassed - h-hi. I've seen a cap on the window and in interested in it. May I?"  
"Sure, here."

The expert shows him the cap, identical to the one he's seen, to the imagination.

"This is a coppola cap made with velvet, really soft."

He gives him the cap. The rough hands softly pet the fabric, sweet to the touch and in the colour. Even the size is perfect.

"Is this what you were looking for, sir?"

"It's perfect." he smiles.

...

Gaspard is back home, the flat decorated with balloons, candles and a cake. Julien must've went taking Klaus from school, everything ready for the return of the young student. But it hasn't been that much for hearing the happy and cheerful voices. He sees the son's eyes sparkling like the most shiny stars, his smile only a blaze toward the red package.

"Happy birthday, son."

-

Claire knows how to make an already original gift unique. Back at home she opens the ebony box, extracting the top hat, the shape perfect for his face. She turns it upside down, revealing its secret: a golden embroidery on the bottom with a clear "Yes".

She already sees the scene, in the dinner, at home or not, doesn't matter, he finally takes her hand for asking it forever. She just says he already has the answer, "but you must find it."

With pensive eyes he'll find it with logic, luck or by the hint. In this tase she would tell him:"The answer is on your head.", but the vision ends here, impossible to speculate on the following seconds.

Luckily there is only a week or more to the day in which the surprise is made for. She just knows she's looking forward for giving that hat for the teaching job.  
For their future.


	6. 06: Villain

_**Bill Hawks POV**_

The bump of the unexpected blow throws me against the wall, the broken glass follows it's pace, the pain familiar, the noise in the ears a déjà vu, the smoke fills my lungs again. With the crackling from the gears and the electrifying power, steps echo from the stairs, then in front of the door, that opens too easily. The neck doesn't obey and the eyelids are opposing, but even a blind can imagine who these sobs and spasms are from, surely not Folley, if she's dead as door-nail.

"And yet two years ago you've seen me again. And I've saved your life."

And she shows herself, the time suspended and immobile as my muscles and my mind for some instants. She rises up from the scrap metal, she approaches slowly, the blood visible as ever on the arms and everywhere, each step proliferating copiously from the cuts and the burns, the face dark, pale, the eyes force themselves in staying wide open and immobile, her chest static. Movements are mechanical, almost involuntary, but the body wouldn't resist if it wasn't for the fossil muscles.

She is the dead one, but I'm the one immobile.

"Saved my life?! If it hadn't been for you, that Layton-"  
"He wouldn't have come after you, indeed. But it wasn't fair."  
"What, leaving me die?"  
"Yes." she smiles at me.  
"But wasn't that what you and Clive wanted?!"  
The glare is lunatic, thoughts and words against each other in her mind. Then she just laughs, worsting the cuts on her neck, the corners of the mouth almost tearing. I've a bad feeling about this.  
I don't want to hear her answer, but I don't say it.  
"You see, Bill, death is not enough - the eyes cold, staring, dead - you have to know what's losing everything is like. You see - the voice cruel - I knew this would have happened."  
"What are you talking about?"  
"What do you mean with what, I mean you all's present: I knew you would have been tried, condemned and plagued by guilt. But what are they for? For the imprisonment, pity or surrender?"  
I don't answer, I swallow.  
"Don't eye me with those disgusted eyes, rather look at yourself. Look how you change from man to unliving. Are really money and power worthy more than those lives? And I'm not just talking about the ten of us, but even the thousands dead because of Clive, Dimitri and you."  
"But I-"  
"Wasn't unaware? Well, you could had paid more attention before risking everything. I've forgot another victim, though. - water mixed with blood wets the cheekbones, now a fury - Hershel."

Now I do feel the terror in every shorter inch, my peace violated. I play the fool.  
"I don't know what you're talking about."  
"Mh - her fists tight - I don't expect you to talk about it, but you're thinking of it."

And the environment twists, against my will, Dimitri disappeared, the smoke makes the night, the sparks the stars in the open sky. We hear distant groans, too dark for understanding dynamics, too far for hearing the details. Too aware to ignore.  
"I'll tell you something:" She approaches to my ear before vanishing. But no sound reaches me.

-

Sweats rolls on my rough forehead, the fingers trembling, the body flushed and frozen. Tears mixed with sweat wet the cheeks, the hands try to placate the heart and calm the diaphragm, deep breaths refresh the airways.  
With difficulty I grab the lenses and bring them to the bridge. The room is dark, but not as much as before, the presence of the moon visible from the barred window. In the hallway I sense someone passing, the gaolers. The bars close me in this inferno with the life sentence, for my entire earthly existence. I watch the cold wall on my side, four lines that will be cut the following sunrise.  
Prison has the goal to educate. But apparently I haven't learnt yet.


	7. 08: Mask

Changed his name with Moses instead of Peter. Wonder why and who is he?

* * *

That gaze petrified him. He felt observed despite that face lacked of eyes, but whenever he peered in that void, seeking his life, he was overwhelmed by the terror of not seeing the light any-more. That same terror that, in each sleepless night, made darker the outline of the eyes like the dark in which he wandered, turned the skin pale like the light he was searching, destabilised the hands like the wind on those clothes in those short but long seconds. He woke up again after the umpteenth death, seen again the memories not recognised.

Everything made him believe that mask was cursed. "If it weren't for you, I'd not be here." he said in the nights, finding safety in a terrible certainty.  
If it hadn't been for it he wouldn't have been there, wandering without his own identity. Wandering for the truth.

Despite the torrential rain and the warnings from miss Grace, after waiting she laid down, Moses left the bed and with cautions he reached the back door, rotated the hander and vanished in the rain veil.

Unconcerned of bringing an umbrella, his pyjamas was soaked like the clothes in that afternoon, the fabric grabbed on the skin, the hands enveloped the impermeable and cold object. The brim of the trousers and the bare foot sank in the mud, then in the rocks, exertion and pain not detected due to the concentration on that face owned by no one.

In the cruelest tempest, here there was the river which saved his life, gave him another possibility.  
In the crumpled hands, here there was the mask which tormented the nights and the days, kept him linked with the past.

Before throwing it, checked again that there was a clue, a name, a memory. But nothing.  
"Wait -The fist contracted- Maybe someone is sear-"  
The other hand caressed the first one and loosened it from the vain hope of a finding.  
"Soon everything will be over." Moses told himself.

He knew the metallic surface wanted water, he gave it the sky's tears, then the last bid: a disdainful glare, difficult to forget.

The plop and the flow captured his mind, the deformed shape his eyes, diving with it until it was no more possible to see.

He sighted loudly, feeling pity for it, a closed door with his past, a past with no identity. He freed himself of those years' burden leaving it to the river, where he belonged, where everything started.

...

"Hey, Moses, at least, if you must stroll in the rain, do it with an umbrella! And with proper clothes: look what you've done?!" Miss Grace was disgusted by the chaos that ruled on the floor full of footprints made by a trembling Moses looking for comfort by the fever and sneezes. While she was complaining and scolding who almost considered her son, the boy, then 25, then member of the Smiths, smiled at the disappearing of that empty and sombre face.


	8. 09: Discovery

_**Paul Perfetti POV**_

The turns of events then appeared like the weed: Claire's love for Layton, despite they'd known for only three moths, while I was her best friend since childhood, the search degree with a time machine, even then in my opinion foolish, and her death. But if this killed me once, that made me experience again the existential void and the hatred for the world was Layton's reaction: whenever I started talking about Claire, he always found an excuse to change or close the topic, or more conveniently just end the conversation, to the point he doesn't acknowledge me. I accept everything, I know he doesn't suit me and vice versa, but how can the man Claire probably trusted the most forget her? It's nonsense, not fair and disgusting, ant better than those mad scientists that had used that angel of a woman as a test subject. Is that the fair play, Allen and Layton? Both of them jeered at her, they will pay for this.

...

Surprises here sting like the chili pepper: the Dimitri's not corresponded love for Claire, despite they were twelve years different, while I was just a couple of year older, the foolish plan of the time machine, my thought always sceptical, and... Celeste's arrival? She claims Claire had a really young sister, but maybe too similar to her, the features identical to her's post-pubertal, the voice clear, the soul strong and brave despite the difficulties... I've pretended to trust her, but there's something fishy about it all.  
But now it's no time for thinking: Allen's lackeys are behind us. I can escape with her, hoping that Layton will make me gain time.

"Celeste, I will think of you. Layton, look out for the children!"

And before the brats could answer, we've disappeared, not reacting to the opening of the door behind our back because it was not our business. Luckly I hear a fight, but short, not long enough for letting me rest. The breath halves itself, the heart hurries in killing me. We can barely reach the underground tunnel and I collapse on the ground, the body exhausted but tense, hands on the chest, inexistent air, the mouth with the remainders of catarrh and blood. Curse to my anime addiction, but after all there weren't other ways to free my range. The COPD is just a really annoying side effect.  
The echo tells us no one is nearby, we are safe. We both lean on the wet wall and I shatter the remainders on the sleeve, too dark to show strain, but blood is not invisible, terror and concern in her eyes, then loathing, five fingers on the air and the slap.  
Those tears are no stranger to me, I would've seen thousand of them when she was a child and was being bullied for her round face and the enormous glasses.  
There is no doubt.  
"Claire..."  
Sobs are even louder, she doesn't hide them.  
"But what the hell has happened to you all!?" And we embrace ourselves in a wet hug.


	9. 10: Animal

_**Jean Descole POV**_

The island is desert, a lonely building on the surface, the first world underwater. The bedroom has wide opened windows, the coughs explicit, extreme tremors. I enter the room, the girl enveloped in the blankets searching solace, finding it seeing the dogs.

Lucky the strays already the first time I showed them her they gave her particular happiness, so her father let me keep them. I must admit that I love them myself, but I've never kept any pet because my wife was allergic to their fur.

Anyhow we called them Sam, Luna, Josh, another Sam (but female) and Spencer. In the shelter I was told they had been used for illegal fights, beaten up and abused. Since that moment it had been difficult for me and them creating any trust link, in fact there were a lot of barks, scratches and bites. Luckily enough, I've been able to bond with them thanks to a device that basically make them deaf, easing them from hearing maddening noises. I'd preferred avoiding a surgery on the aural apparatus, seeing the fact that their other ear was already compromised, probably sequestered as a trophy. And then, thinking of it, Oswald told even me that they can protect Melina, giving her more safety. I don't know what they protect her from, being the Death impossible to stop, killing anybody soon or later, but you know, when a father has a daughter in danger, he uses every measure available.

Anyway, now the dogs "invade" the girl, she giggling, comforted from pain and fear of the pressing death. Tuberculosis is not a joke, especially if diagnosed too lately. I go back in my lab, which is really tidy in the objects, messy and incomprehensible in the concepts. I tear apart a sheet from the cork plate, a note about one of the legacies to find, the most important because might compromise the resurrection of Ambrosia and the destruction of the Legacy: Misthallery and the Golden Garden, source of any cure for any disease, prophetic and actual location of the eternal life.

My plan depends of the success of this cursed finding. Or else I'll be ruined.

Spencer approaches. I must admit at first sight he seems the most dangerous of the five, but the idea of the muscles is given by the scars that give the skinny profile. Actually he's the most sensitive of them all and probably is the only one who can figure out if I'm not in good mood. He rubs on my leg searching attention, or my distractions. I caress his fur, always careful in avoiding any contact with the scars and receive a bite. I smile at him, thanking him for the little request but big as the world for him, giving me a break from this burden I'm carrying.

"I have an enormous responsibility. - he just smiles, the works meaningless - Sadly tomorrow I must depart."  
Pointing at the door he came in from he leaves, his loyalty enviable. At least he is oblivious of the events occuring right now.


	10. 11: Combat

_**Hershel Layton POV**_

I'm not sure to be the right person in the right place. Clark and the other students, oblivious of my history with fencing, just exult, aware of my skills, ignorant of my fears.  
_And if I fail, and if I dishonour him?_  
But I can't back down right now. I brandish the saber with the right hand. The PE teacher, whose name I haven't learned yet, awakes me shaking my shoulder. "Come on, be ready." I climb up the platform, under the anticipations of everyone. Anticipations that ask a victory for London.

I sigh, controlling my tense muscles, aside for the heart, that jumps at each clap, whistle and gaze. My opponent wears the mask, anonymous, his name confuse with mine on the notice board that I find it hard to read. He assumes the position, the right foot in front of the other. I do the same.

Silence. "En garde! Prêts? Allez!"

More silence, cut by the ephemeral collision of the blades.  
_I'll hit him on the uncovered should-_  
That enemy lunge for my shoulder hits with all its might the right external metacarpal. The blinding pain is its result, I kneel, the wound still palpitating.

Time freezes, with the opponent. The referee approaches, wanting to remove the glove, but I stop him.  
"I must continue the match." I ask my groupmate another glove, for the other hand. So the saber is hold by the left, like I did sometimes in the practices. "Let's go on. I'm ok."

With hesitation the opponent and the referee go back on their places.  
Let's restart.  
"En garde! Prêts? Allez!"


	11. 12: Archaeology

_**Angela Ledore POV**_

My brother is dead because of archaeology, an expedition that was mean to be decisive but just sealed his fate.  
Randall is... missing because of archaeology, an expedition that was mean to prove his bravery but just exhibited his stupidity.  
Hershel is away because of archaeology, studies that are meant to honour in some way the friend but will just drag him to a certain death.  
And then Henry is getting obsessed with archaeology, with Randall's finding. I don't understand any-more if these intentions are for loyalty or for side effect. I don't comprehend any-more which is the cause of which.

I go in his study without knocking. When the hander rotates, the jumps from the chair he's been sitting for the last hours. An object on his hands reflects the light thanks to its metallic surface, not through my tears from ten years ago.  
My eyes as dead as its, Henry's ones terrified by its sight.  
"Where have you found it." The cold voice freezes his words in the throat.  
"Angela, I can ex-"  
"HAVE YOU FOUND RANDALL!?" My tears burst. The hands combat the surface of the desk, water stains it. Only now I see the chisel, the sandpaper and the other utensils.  
"Angela, it's a fake."  
"..." My hopes dead.  
"When Randall sees this, maybe he will be back."  
I knew it, archaeology brings to nothing. I laugh hysterically, all excuses pointless, my wrath inconsolable. "But you even think he will look out for another mask, really?! -fits on the wood- He has already one, why would he search for other ones?! -eyes on the metal- He will never come back: he's already dead." The last words barely whispered, the tears unstoppable. I immediately bolt out the room and close myself in mine, reality incomprehensible.  
Archaeology belongs to the deads and lures vain hopes. Curiosity killed the cat. Ambition killed the archaeologist.


	12. 13: Loss

**_Jean Descole POV_**

I'm happy I had the opportunity to see Hershel again, even if it's not the best moment. Actually, I'm worried to know he could be involved in this really dangerous situation. I don't want him to suffer anymore, nor his family and anyone.  
Anyway, his help revealed to be precious, if I'd known that he would have done all the work in my behalf earlier, I wouldn't have hindered him and I would have get rid of Jakes, that did nothing other than slow down the plan. Now the Garden has been awaken, the legacy revealed, but maybe I'm still obligated to pass to plan B, not that I'm eager for that, but I have no other choices.

I reach the Ambrosia island as fast as possible. Misthallery had taken a lot of precious time from me, from Melina. I land the helicopter, the gaze Oswald gives me, he knelt on the sand, reveals the truth I feared most: she is dead. I know his eyes will torment me until the last image I will see in this world, like the faces of Violet and Samantha when they were terrorized because of the intruders. I almost feel Desmond, or rather his zombie, is awakening and bringing up all my faults. But he doesn't know what plan B is about.  
His fists trap the sand, the nails gather a great amount, a terrifying quake inside him.  
"You... You promised me you would have saved her."  
"In fact-"  
"IN FACT SHE'S DEAD! NO BREATHING! YOU HAVEN'T TRIED TO CURE HER! MY CHILD..." the tears steal the words from the mouth in the moment where nothing can explain his pain. I know what's like losing the most important people, but I must admit it's as if I've forgotten it, for my mental health sake, already upset for this shitty situation.  
I smile at him, showing him optimism: learning from my mistakes, I've developed my foresight. If I'd thought of it earlier... But stop regretting.

"You see, Whistler, in the truth she's not dead."  
He gives me an offended gaze, like after a blasphemy. "What are you saying?! She's still there lying-" Other hiccups.  
"Yes, her body is indeed. But what about her memories?"  
The sight changes, confused, the concept incomprehensible. "M-memories?"  
"Exactly. -I smile- Even if I had arrived a month ago for bringing her, we couldn't have been too sure she would have arrived in the garden in time. Plus, being really weak in health, easily someone can reckon she would've not survived that much outside her home, too stressful. Because of it I archived her memories in a machine in the lab."

The fact doesn't convince him. "And... even if? That doesn't change my child is dead." His eyes are off, like theirs, the flames in the house not enough for lighting them up.  
"Can't you understand?! I'd you take someone and insert her memories, she will be back to life! Sure, she will be in a stranger's body, but she will have a better health, too!" Now they are beaming of life. Those magical words were far enough, after all. Of it were enough, then my eyes will stay forever in this mask's black holes.  
"R-Really? Is it possible?!"  
"Sure." Obvious, or else how can I awaken Ambrosia? Better not thinking of it and hope the plan works. "If I'm not wrong she has a friend, what's her name..."  
"Is it maybe Janice?"  
"Right, Janice... Quatlane, am I right?"  
"Yes! I'll call her right now!"  
"Emh, wait-" but he's already back home. It's incredible how much a father can do whatever it trashes for protecting his daughter.


	13. 14: Family

_**Alfendi Layton POV**_

"In the orphanage I was always in the darkest room, in the darkest and hidest corner: I'd brought shame to the head mistress that managed the children, right because I was unmanageable. In truth they'd never understood that, respect to my naive colleagues, I didn't want to go in the first family and serve it just because they'd decided for once to rise their ars-"

"Language, Alfendi." Mr Layton was walking by in the hallway with a sleeping Kat on his arms, but just when he hears the swear he can't help but intervene. Someone else would have ignored it.

"Emh... bottom for taking me home. Despite the shame of my name, it was like I had a price on my head for who whould have succeeded in educating me. Among the aspirants, the one I will unlikely forget are the Robinsons, the eighth family to try to manage that beast Alfendi, the family that had kept me for two weeks."

"Only?! -grandma is shocked- They can't just take a child and then leave him like nothing happened, even if he's a brat!" She shakes her head in denial. Grandpa is silent and listens.

"Mr Robinson was a rich man that threw money in order to make his name greater. Mrs Robinson was not that different, wasn't afraid to but something with too many digits and was really domestic, even if never cared about me. The other sons, that I was even obligated to call brothers, were some pussy-"

"Alfendi." This time it's grandpa, the tone almost the same of Mr Layton's. Like father, like son.

"Sorry. -the wrinkles on the forehead press- But, they could'd at least be nicer, eh?! They didn't want to play, they talked about bull- nonsense and were always closed. I mean, they wanted to help me and then I was feeling worse than in the orphanage. And yet, in the papers they talked about this family that adopted a beast dressed like a child, other than the several hum-humanitarian projects.  
"I was sick of it, other than bored: I could leave the house only for ceremonies or for those pointless parties in which all riches go in the Sundays. I was feed up, and I wanted to leave with a number greater than the other mere pranks. I woke up at 1 am, while everyone was snoring in the luxury. I went in their bathroom, in which there was a gigantic Jacuzzi, I opened the water in its max, shampoo and soap, all that stuff in the near bottles and the collection of duckies and I waited that the house was flooded. You should've seen their faces when they realized the house was strangely cleaner! Ahahahah!" I laugh out loud again at the memory. Grandma shares the hiccups, while grandpa's face is severe.

_Oh crap, it shouldn't have been like this, come on, laugh a bit!_

I'm almost terrorized in asking him the motive of this reaction, but he comes first. "Alfendi, I can understand they were irresponsible, naive and greedy of attention, other than disrespectful in your behalf. That's not a good motive for this action, though, in fact you were brought back in the orphanage." My eyes fall on the floor for the shame. A hand reaches my shoulder and he smiles at me. "The world is a place in which everybody can be anybody: even illiterate poor men can be really wise and the acculturated riches oxes of highest fashion. Some never learn and remain in their imaginary world and so you should not try to straighten them, at least not in this way, because it would be better to just avoid them. What I'm trying to say is that if someone is not to your liking, just talk to him and explain him how do you feel and how do you want to feel."

"And just know, Al, -grandma's smile widens- that here you can talk liberally with us. Also because we have just a shower!" Laughters vibrate in my stomach, in panic. Again, grandma laughs and grandpa just smiles.  
This family is really odd, exactly like me. And because of this I like it.


	14. 15: Photo

_**Luke Triton POV**_

"Luke, and what's this from?" Flora, while we're looking for the Laytonmobile's keys, waves a rigid sheet found behind one of the many books that build the great wall under the window.  
It's a sepia picture, not in perfect conditions.  
In the photo there are me, Arianna and Tony, the Professor and Loosha in front of the Bardes' lake. It saddens me just to think those two ended up orphans, but fortunately we left them in a town that demonstrated to be generous and available to them.  
"It was photographed three years ago, in Misthallery, where I'd lived until the Professor solved our first mystery."  
"The first? What happened?"  
I elaborate her the event, surprising of myself for not have already told her months ago, when she'd just arrived from Saint Mystere. I tell her the story with excitement and enthusiasm: I mean, it's a thing that affects me a lot, being directly involved and the right sender of that letter.  
"In the end the garden was found, saving Arianna's life -I point at the girl in the photo- that suffered from a dire disease doctors defined it as incurable. Sadly Loosha -I point at what for many was a Manatee- left us, she was too exhausted because of the efforts in destroying the dam."  
Flora shuts and reflects on the story. "But a question that I've been wondering: who shotted the picture?"  
"Oh, it was Emmy, the once Professor's assistant." I rub my hands, preparing myself from the sad memories, sad not for their content, but for their rarity. "I'll tell you about her another time. Now lets search the keys."  
She nods hesitant.

...

"Sure you don't want to come with me, Luke?"  
"Don't worry, dad. I want to help mum in tidying the chicken. Go."  
Dad smiles and closes the door behind him. Today three years ago the problems in Misthallery ended, with the reinstatement of the order, the candidacy of Greppe as mayor and the arrest of Jakes (he will learn, that scoundrel!), other than the reconstruction of the building damaged by the spectre or the water. And after three years, I have the opportunity to see again Arianna and Tony. Who knows how much they've changed.

...

"Drat, I was really that short?"  
"Don't despair, Tony. Look how much you've grown up, even if not enough!" Arianna throws her brother's hair into disarray, laughing at the memory.  
"Well -I intervene- at least you're higher than me. Anyway how are you now in Misthallery?"  
"Really good! -Arianna smiles, enlightened- Everyone is so nice and it's been an years I've resumed studying."  
"An year only? I thought the Garden's beneficial effects were immediate."  
"No, but luckily they were miraculous and now I can go out the house whenever I want. Yesterday there was the ceremony in Loosha's memory-"  
"And she's played with the ocarina that song she loved! You went greatly!"  
"Oh thank you -she flushes, not used to compliments- I just hope she liked it."  
We're again pensive to the memory, while I'm seeing mum giving some tips to Flora in how to make tea. I focus again to my friends, really unrecognisable respect to few years ago, especially because now they are a lot happier. Last time I've seen Arianna laughing might have been when we've fist met, I don't remember what was the party for, but it was extremely useless, at least for us. And luckily her eyes sparkle again like the stars we've seen that evening.

Chats speed the time, the effect increased by the presence of tea, puzzles and laughs.  
Sky is even darked, the clock rings eight times.

"My word, it's getting late. It's time to bring you back home." the Professor sips the last drops of tea.  
Tony doesn't seem happy, but Arianna, she too sad, smiles to us. "Thank you for the hospitality and for the bother. It's so good meeting you again. You know, we really miss you in Misthallery." She shakes the hand to the bystanders, the brother following her suit. The Professor takes his jacket and goes to the door, the two youngsters behind him. I continue bidding so long to them until they vanish from my view.  
"When will we see them again, dad?"  
For my surprise, I don't receive and answer. I turn, his eyes tormented, the hands tied up together in front of the mouth.  
"You see, Luke, there is something I have to tell you..."


	15. 16: Meeting

_**Hershel Layton POV**_

It's been a couple of days since the revelation of the Masked Gentleman and his plan, the escape and victory of Descole and the reconcile between Randall, Henry and Angela.

Tonight Emmy and Luke will be in the circus for Rambit's spectacle, while I go to the opposite direction, toward the Ledore mansion, where I've been invited. Passing in front of the museum, while going in the street I hear my name being called from behind: it's Alphonse.

"Hey, I've just seen the lad in the circus."

"Luke is really fond of animals, so don't be surprised."

"But if you're not with him, it means you've been called too?" he asks me surprised.

"Yes, last night Henry invited me to his house."

"And you've even accepted? Well, you shouldn't feel guilty for wanting to refuse, eh."

"Not at all. -I answer him- But I can say the same for you, though."

The face tenses, evidence to be taken by surprise. "Well, I just want to see how Bratscot is going, at least if he's more mature now. Speaking of which, so you may know where he's been in these eighteen years?"

I tell him what the Masked Gentleman told us on the roof of the Reunion Inn. It still frightens me the thought of seeing him on high and dangerous spots. And then... what Descole told me...

"Whatcha thinking?"

"Oh, nothing."

"Come on, you know you can't hide a thing to me." He hits me with the elbow, giving me a bit of embarrassment.

"It doesn't matter. -I smile to him- Rather let's hurry, it's already getting dark."

...

"Alphonse, Hershel! It's so good to see you!"

"Yeah, Angela, especially when there are no bothers in the way."

Angela and Alphonse laugh at the latter's sentence, a mood that free them from the panic that crushed on is in these last eighteen years.

Angela is not that different respect to two days ago, if not for the missing necklace with the coin. I place a hand on the head, remembering myself of the omnipresent top hat, my nightmare still alive.

"Come on, come in. It's really cold today."

"Right, better hurry." And Alphonse runs in, looking for a fireplace, in vain. I close the door behind me.

Sit in front of the tea table it's Randall, now Alphonse joins him and they chat animatedly, calling each other with not-that-flattering names but just for pulling each others' leg.

Angela is beside me, the entrance behind our back.

"Thank you for coming." she tells me without looking.

"No problem, it's a duty." I answer automatically, the hand on the brim of the top hat.

"It's not true. -her eyes on me- After all we have done-"

"Angela. -I take get hands for calming her- It's been many years, it doesn't matter anymore now."

"Your hands and your eyes are telling another story."

We've been called suddenly by a voice we are still not used to listening to. "Come on, what are you still doing there? -the figure approaches to Angela, it takes her hands- Darling, this way."

She nods and together we sit down. Randall is on the sofa with Angela close aside; Alphonse and I are on the opposite armchairs.

From the lateral hallway arrives Henry that, respect the days before, and apparently respect these years judging by Angela's reaction, he smiles and his happiness is genuine in its highest semplicity, the one that everyone wants. The happiness of who knows nothing will ruin him anymore because every problem is solved. With him there is a tray, cups and a teapot graceful and elegant, the steam still visible. He doesn't make himself wait and places everything on the table, ready to serve personally Randall and then Angela, going against the etiquette of putting women first.

Randall takes rapidly the cup thanking Henry frequently and drinks, ending up burning the tongue. The three laugh for the clumsiness, I just don a fake smile.

Idiots, there is nothing to laugh at.

Silence lays, interrupted by some clashes between silver, porcelain and fragments of lump. Then Randall, the tongue no more burnt, starts asking us what happened on his absence.

"Well..." Angela starts, not fully sure where to begin.

"There is not much else to know -I continue- if not that shortly after I left for London, Henry started looking for you and he then founded Monte d'Or. The rest is history." I sip the too-sweet tea. The glances from Angela are the cause of the shivering by the broken innocence filled in them. Surely she hasn't been expecting I was going to sweep under the rug, but it's just that I don't like others to feel mercy or pity for me. What had happened had conditioned my life, my way to think and all my destiny. There is nothing to forget, forgive or remedy now.

Randall was expecting rather something interesting and he asked me more about my study courses. I've told him of my academic adventures, when, rather than following the classes, I organised archaeological expeditions that I was going to write in a essay for doctor Schrader. Then Alphonse joins the conversation, explaining him how his dream of building a hotel society from the start came true and well, second to the Reunion Inn only. "But I must underline that my investments have been paid with my cash. I haven't done like Henry searching for the pirates' treasures!" Tension once again is broken by laughs.

"Alphonse... they were not pirates'. They were Ancient Civilization's, right, Layton?"

I just nod. I don't like this civilization at all. And it's not only for Akbadain, that's for sure.

Henry guarantees Randall that the documents for the divorce with Angela are almost done, Randall enthusiastic for the future marriage with her, even if I see doubt and perplexity in the blonde's eyes. She doesn't seem so sure...

After other discussions about archaeology, economy and the confrontation between urban and farm lifestyle, I decide to cut it, the clock and its ten bells confirm the motive. The right fingers place on the top hat brim, finding support. "Sadly I must leave you. But not without telling you few things."

Their glances define the likely confusion. "What do you mean, Hershel?" Randall asks.

"First of all, tomorrow I'll go back in London with Luke and Emmy. I don't know when we'll met again, but probably not soon."

"Give me a motive."

"Being a professor surely doesn't give you thousand free days. And I'm these years I've been solving a dangerous-"

"Come on, how much dangerous-"

"I almost died."

"Wait, what?!" They all repeat.

Astonishment echoes. I didn't want to say it. I'll be as vague as possible now. "I can't explain this for your safety. When the case is closed you will find it in all the papers, in first page." I smile, because I'm sure journalist will talk about it soon or later. Judging by their eyes, apparently my optimism is out of place, but I don't care. "The second thing I wanted to say is about the letter Descole wrote you, Randall."

His body is defensive, the memory still fresh. "What."

"Actually in the letter it's written nothing but your name and hometown-"

"What in the blazes are you saying, Layton!?" Henry doesn't take it well. I should've imagined. "He manipulated him giving false information."

"But that improbable? Anyone would've questioned their authenticity, but Randall didn't. That's because, while reading the letter, his memories were coming back on parts, and in order to cope for the lacking ones, he invented the story of the betrayal, because it made sense."

Randall is speechless, like Henry, his words takes by the mouth; Angela is shocked but trusts me, knowing to have not a vindictive friend, while Alphonse starts laughing hard.

"Ready, Hershel? I wouldn't have said, and yet I find it in perfect Randall style inventing this tales. But -the smile not villainous- all's well what ends well. After all, this story is finished. - He stands up too- Now, if you let me, I go back home." We both bid goodbyes to the motionless three, still reflecting on the letter. I take a final glance to Randall, his eyes wide by the realization. We leave in silence.

...

"Were you serious earlier, about the letter?"

"Yes, it's a tactic I've found in some police novels." I lie. He doesn't need to know it was the same Descole that revealed me.

"But can you explain yourself better about this hateful case you're working on?"

The tremor warns me the danger for a wrong answer. "I'll tell you all in the next meeting."

"Mhm... But there will be for sure?"

I think back of the halley, the threats, the blows, the nightmares lasted one month and the rehabilitation, the great and other threats. If you're not careful enough this will be the last sentences you'll read, one of them said. The answer was heavy in the stomach and in the voice. "No."


	16. 17: Mech

**_Theodore Phibbs POV_**

"Uncle, what's this?"

I turn, some red tufts peer me from behind the metal sheets, revealing then the child's curios eyes, the pupils scarlet like mine, but with different blood. In the hand, behind the back, he keeps a paper. Then he waves it under my lenses, the Detragan project appears once again in front of me.

I smile at the memories of the awakening of Ambrosia and Whistler having another possibility to have the last talk with his daughter. If I had the possibility...

"Wait... -I tear the greased gloves, role the oily sleeves, cleaning the stained lenses- It is an old project. Where have you found it."

"It was there." That is the highest drawer from that rotten piece of forniture. How in the blazes arrived up there?!

"Wow, I didn't know you grew so much!" I throw his already disorganized hair into confusion. He doesn't like it.

"Don't laugh at me! Then again I used a chair." And in fact there was one near by.

I'm amazed by my niece's intelligence. "Then you deserve to know exactly what is it! You see, it's a really powerful weapon-"

"A weapon, really? With a keyboard and musical instruments? And then since when you've been a musician? The last I knew you fix cars, you don't work in a conservatory!"

"Now I elaborate. -he crosses his arms- It has been commissioned."

"By who?"

"By a great classical music musician."

"Good. And what was such a fearsome weapon for?"

"For playing. But the weapon is in the insides." I take another sheet, after choosing from many of rolled ones. "Now I show you how it works." I lay it on the table, fingering the several sections. His eyes follow the index finger, amazed not for the mechanism but for the result, the technical words shutted by his yawns. _No, he's not suited for being a mechanic._ I cut the subject. "And here there is the keyboard with its four manuals, on the sides there are the extensions and the air chamber. Then-"

"This piece of metal can just hurt the ears, and that's too much! -he enrages rapidly- I thought there was something interesting."

I sigh. "I'm not done yet. You didn't even glare this blueprint."

"This bluewhat?"

"The blue... the project. Here there is the true weapon. You see here the powerful drills and bores, the appendixes can be two kilometres long..." His eyes sparkle for mere curiosity, not for passion, not like little Theo. _No, surely he will not be a engineer._

"So cool! But is dad aware of this?"

I want to pull his leg: I check the surrounding, no one on the sight, I approach to his ear and whisper:"...No, but can you keep a secret?"

"Sure, I'm not a spy-"

"Good, then I trust you. You see, once I was a really famous criminal, but say to no one!"

The child gives me disappointed glances. "Just that, a joke? Come on, uncle, I'm not a kid, and you're not that dumb! And even if that were true dad would've already found out. You know he helps the police."

I know he's lying, that now he's suspecting me, because I've reminded him everyone can be a potential criminal. I know he's interrogating me on the sly, as a true detective does. _Yes, he will make Scotland Yard great._

"Speaking of which, before he said he was going to the police station. What is it about?"

"I don't know. I just know it's a big case, but not else."

Right, the London incident and the family ruined back then and ten years prior. I just hope Hershel won't run on the razor's edge again.

"And then what's this?" He shakes a white mask, no more clean for the dust.

_Yes, he will be a great detective._


	17. 18: Alternative Universe (Twisted Fates)

_Twisted Fates AU - Completely thought by Notllorstel (check Tumblr) except I've changed the Targent boss with an OC that corresponds with the former one._

**_THEODORE GRACE POV_**

«You know, I really want to tell you about the project I've joined last year.»  
«I guess it's pretty interesting. However...» I feel eyes and ears focusing on us. Talking about this in a bar is not the most prudent move.  
«What?»  
«You'd told me those are... confidential informations.» I use another word instead of Top Secret for drawing less attention.  
«I know, but I'm eager to tell you! But OK, I'll say it later.»

After ten minutes we leave the place, the impression of being observed doesn't draw back. Paranoia? Probably.

We get in the car, not activating the engine.  
She elaborates on the entity of the project.  
«A time machine?» _Does it really exist?_  
«Yeah! They've been working on it for a lot of years, but in a week it's ready! Fantastic, isn't it?»  
«Indeed... particular, yes...» Surely the news will spread rapidly. But will Targent hear it? Its spies do know how to make life a mined field, so yes. And will they show up immediately? Well, how can they leave such a useful discovery? They could talk with suicide researchers or directly with the owner of the eggs...  
«Bill and Dimitri are looking forward the first test on Wednesday. But you know what's even more surprising?»  
I smile with her, denying, satisfying her. I'm scared.  
«They've chosen me as first subject to test it! Imagine, I'll be the first human being to experience a space-time travel! Isn't it incredible?»  
Pupils dilate, the blood frozen just like years ago. _Her, of all people existing? Targent will want her at any cost. They know how to make life a living hell. They have no mercy, abducting her, torturing her or-_  
«You don't look convinced. What's bothering you, Theo?»  
I jump briefly. I'm never that deep in my thoughts when there are other people. «Oh- nothing.»  
«The knight is afraid for his lady? You're so sweet!» She rubs my cheeks, my muscles too much tenses.  
I don't blush. I don't smile. «You should not do that.»  
«And why not? Just because I'm a weak woman?—she laughs inn the silence, the hand squeezes the shoulder—Don't worry, I'm followed by perfectly capable scientists and there are all the security plans. Then again you know I'm strong.»  
«No, I'm seri-»  
«Do you trust me?» She's dead serious now, lips distended on her face.  
It's so strange seeing her change mood that rapidly. I must not worry her. «Indeed. Sorry.»  
And then light is back in her eyes. «It's alright worrying for who one loves, no?»  
I must not worry her, I'll solve the matter alone. I smile at her. «Yes.»

[...]

I lie on the bed, in my apartment for not that much. I shot a glance on the map on the wall, the red drawing pins surround the streets where Targent agents have been seen or there are cases in which they're involved.

Some blue one indicate the probable presence of the sniper responsible of the death of archaeologists, politicians or who probably just knew the organization name. Only as cocky as Swift can shoot in so exposed places. I thought he's learned... How can no one hasn't seen him?

The paper's articles and the several dossiers spilled on the desk are even more recent: the organization is more active than ever.

Shit, right when I've obtained a normal life. I know, having as a girlfriend a physics weeks weak for the time travel isn't the right definition of normality, but at least I was no more involved with murders, abductions and archaeology. Until now.

I look the chair, the top hat ruling of the soft place. At least it's not afraid of what it is and what it was.  
I look my hands, the blood suffocate on the rough skin. Owned by innocents and guilty and paternal. Indelible, unyielding oil. I'll be clear, I'm no more afraid to kill, I'm no more afraid of the danger, but I do fear for Claire, Clark and Paul.

It's time to react. Curtains move by the artificial air, drawing my attention.  
Plumage is red, indicating that Mrs Feathers is back from hunting time.  
I turn to her, the brown eyes tired but always aware and sharp: she's understood I need her. I stand up, despite my body trying to stop the advance, sick of this story; the wound on the back stings finding a way to change my mind. I caress the soft scarlet feathers, hoping to delete the scars on the muscled left wing. Rapidly the beak bite into the dead ring-dove's thigh with her claws, some white feathers in the mouth. I leave her eating the prey, while I sit down in front of the desk. I turn open other folders above the various disorganised sheets, Targent activities increase.

A grip takes my shoulder, the Harris' hawk at rest for a moment; she stares focusing on the writing, as if she could read them, and then investigates my eyes, as if she could read them, thing she's capable of.

I finger to her the a London area, a narrow district, a building anonymous to anybody but not to her. She bolts out of the window like a dart.  
I fast take some tools that will help me: screwdrivers, hammer, nails and monkey wrenches. I must sabotage the tomorrow test or it will be the end of everyone.  
I run toward the for but an image stops me: a Claire extremely disappointed and sad. Then another her bloodying, agonized and in search of help gives me motivation. I leave the apartment, I don't worry to lock the door.  
Forgive me, Claire.

[...]

Arrived at the palace, the Mistress cleans the right wing, meaning that the area is desert, but nothing can deny the presence of people in the rooms. I break open the entrance and enter the building. Silence tells me my worries were futile. I reach the third floor, the plate "POLID. LAB" confirms the right destination. The door is unlocked and I wide open it with no problems, closing it on my back.

The lab consists in a really spacious room, letting a wide range of furnitures for any technological machine. I see several drawers with white coats and tools, other than various desks with blueprints rolled up in the corners. On the walls there are hung several singular and particular clocks, apparently just prototypes; some tubes run on the ceiling carrying electricity.

But there it is the finished machine. It's a great cage made by steel, some clocks from different diameters on the superior zone with pipes and a face from the disproportionate sizes, three arms linked to the centre, as well out of proportions, too long for the brim. Around the machine there are control panel that gather all the data of the experiment, probably.

I can't make in time to approach that the Mistress squawks once, now twice: there are intruders. In fact then some steps follow the alarm, they are slow but speedy and tense. I close myself in the wardrobe with other lab coats and impose silence.  
They open the door, foot near me stop. There must be five people there. Three of them weight 90 kilograms or more. Security guards?  
«As I said and as you can see, everything is ready.»  
«Until I don't see it functioning, for me all that thing can even be just junk.»  
«What are you saying?!—He's offended—It's been years I'm working on the machine and that's all you can say?! I'm indignant!»  
«But not any-more when we will pay you, am I right?»  
«Obvious.»  
He chuckles in silence, thinking of the futility of the man. «Then, Mr Hawks, you must know how business works: I believe in what I see only.»  
«But-»  
«SO—he dictates violently but succeeding—if tomorrow you don't give me the data and the proof that confirm it works, for me that whatchamacallit is pure rubbish and doesn't worth a cent, even less my attention.»  
There are not replies or objections.  
He smiles loudly. «Good. Then see you tomorrow, Bill.» Four pair of foot go back disappearing, then followed by the last one, heavy for frustration.

So there is a conspiracy. Selling a group project... I would've called him Leech. I feel a bit offended.  
I leave the hiding place and think of the sabotage that, luckily, has not just Targent as goal. I can't let another bastard to get away with it.  
I modify the internal mechanism, so that it can't be powered, and leave rapidly the building, going back in the apartment. I pack my bags, ready for the near departure for the destruction of the organization.

Soon or later I will make Kyle Ross pay for obligating me kill my father.  
At the time I was 6 and I just learned how to shoot.  
«Or you or him.» He growled.  
«Shoot me, please!» Leon was in tears, I don't know if because of the pain of death or for the guilt in that sentence. Maybe both.  
In the end, me as well victim of the terror, I pressed the trigger. And there in that I put an end on my fears.  
And there I swore revenge on Targent.

I will make him pay for making me find my mother dead.  
«It's your fault—he told me—you're too good and she distracted you. Now you can do your best.»

And so be it. Death to Targent.  
Farewell, Claire.


	18. 20: Crossover

_**Hershel Layton POV**_  
Judging by the already dark sky, making it possible to check the essays without a switched on lamp, and the diary opened on the pages of November, I can deduce that it's about just five o'clock of the afternoon. I still can't believe I'm taking this long for correcting just one paper. It would be better to skip it instead for now...

The collision between drops and glass and wall relaxes me, while the knocking on the door awaken me from work.  
Who could be? I have no appointments.  
I hasten to open the door, finding a not too new face, a smile born spontaneously.  
«I'm happy to see you, Carmine.»  
«_Idem_, professor.—he inspects the desk with a discreet look—Am I disturbing you by any chance?»  
«No, don't worry. Rather, come in, the hallway is quite chilly.»  
«You're right—he enters trembling—I wonder who the genius that leave those windows wide open is, _accidenti_! At this rate I could more likely get a cold.» I laugh at the unintentional pun, he blushes for embarrassment at the realization. «Maybe _diamine_ sounds better, indeed.»  
«Anyway,—I go toward the burners—I would say a good tea cup wouldn't do any harm.»  
«_Grazie infinite_. Wait, let me help you.»

In two we manage to prepare rapidly the drink, the table with cups and biscuits. Carmine, like me, prefers drinking it naturally, so I avoid adding the sugar cubes on the spot.

After a moment of silence and contemplation to the rain, I decide to start the conversation. «So, how did that _accidenti_ happened?»  
«I've already told you it's said _incidente_, _prof_, and there was a bloody witch that was chasing me!»  
I laugh for the emphasis, after all I too thought she was a genuine one firstly. But logic rules. «And how were you in hospital?»  
«Luckily good,—he sits slowly while I serve the tea—some broken bones and mere scratches, nothing too severe or irreversible. Rehabilitation was fast but difficult: that physiotherapist wanted to destroy my bones, I'm sure of it.—he smiles, but the swallows the chuckle—Now I'm making fun of it, but I swear it was true.»  
«Anyway, the blond girl, Espella Cantabella, is back home and the mystery of Labyrinthia is closed.»  
«I've read it in the papers, there was Phoenix Writh too! That must've been super interesting!»  
«Yes, it was...» At least it didn't involve deeply who I care more. «But if we did it it was only thanks to you. That letter brought us there.» Funny to think that these recent letters, apparently harmless, can bring such singular adventures. «At any rate, I see even in the misfortune there is always fortune to save your day. But don't be too reckless for this!» The tone of voice is friendly and soft.  
«I know, I know. I wonder why it didn't leave me ages ago. But I'm happy of my current carrier. World is full of things to offer, prof!»  
I cannot deny it for sure.  
«Being a detective is a lot more than what you can find in the novels.»  
«Surely in some settings books are really limited, in other aspects they open a whole new world to discover.—I smile at him, provoking him—And not only books.»  
«Be', those few years in your course helped me: some murders have a huge fantasy in using tools and environments.»  
It's so nice to see such a passionate youngster. «If I must be honest with you,—I smile naturally—I've realized immediately you were not suited for being an archaeologist, rather, it would've suffocated your true passion for investigation.»  
Carmine smiles at the same fashion, leaving a sigh of relief. «Forgive that sudden change of program.»  
«Not at all,—I reassure him—life can be really unpredictable and change ideas with an astonishing ease.» Ideas, such an ephemeral and weak thought. Toward destiny, everything is amorphous.  
«So,—he asks—what told you archaeology was not for me?»  
«It's quite simple:—I seep the steaming tea with cautions—you always asked if there was a corpse near any discover, you tried to identify object now for their everyday use but instantaneous one, like a weapon. But that's not all. Other than asking the cause of death of the corpse or of its fragments, I'd always seen you reading an Italian book in train. I suppose it was maybe an Italian police novel, am I correct?»  
«Commissario De Vincenzi's cases. I think he's my favourite detective: Italian, great expert of English and fascinated by art and human mind's mysteries. He resembles me a lot!»  
«I cannot doubt it.»

The afternoon goes on slowly trough the scent of Earl Grey, some pieces from yellowed books and revived memories.  
«I've seen again my sweet car after the incident and it's unrecognisable, other than no more usable!»  
I can't suppress my spontaneous laughs. I leave him sip his tea, now tolerable for the tongue and the throat. «Can I say something, prof?»  
«Sure.» I'm surprised from the direct question.  
«I don't see you as an archaeologist.»  
«How so? From which evidences?» Panic rises silently.  
He can't shut his smile. «I suspect you suffer some sort of phobia that makes you greatly upset when in closed environments, generally in our expeditions in archaeological sites like caves and under-earth ruins. There you are extremely prudent and sometimes reckless, not worrying of crevasses or gorges, even if your worry is well hidden but visible. But in the recent adventures, from what i can see from the newspaper articles, you were not in any way scared. And plus, you work with police. So,—hands on table, up from the chair like in a tense interrogatory—am I right, _professore_?»  
Eyes stare at him. Then I distract them focusing on tea, no more boiling but source of weak heat. «Your reasoning is flawless.—I smile at him—Now I do understand why fortune never left you: you're extremely insightful. Maybe one day I will tell you this story.»


	19. 22: Confrontation

_**Hershel Layton POV**_

The first solar rays seep in the barely open eyelids. The eyes see the celestial apparition that is happen for almost a moth: I'm lied on a double bed in a bedroom we own for ten years, but mine for only few weeks, the framed pictures show the day I've always dreamed and apparently lived, a kiss in the center of the wall. Now in my view arrive some crimson locks, the shining black eyes sparkle of live, the lips part and syllabify the first greeting of the day, told by a too familiar voice, the one my mind refuses. «Good morning, darling.»  
I still shudder in each awakening, but I hide my distress well, the for-too-long missing top hat gives more bother. «Good morning, sweetheart.» and I kiss her brow. She smiles, in my mind just the face that was lied on a gurney, the corpse it owned bare and covered only by the pure sheet and by the carbonized skin, the ring missing, still sleeping in the red-velvet box. _Maybe it was the Pandora box?_  
And yet they now reside in their place, joined together by the braided fingers. She lies down again, having pulled an all nighter, judging by the shattered books on the desk. I stand up, letting escape a yawn, the hand placates bad manners. I sink my foot in the warm slippers, the winter breeze has infected the floor. I leave the room, she already asleep. I climb down the stairs, little but heavy steps vibrate the floor. Yes, _Hersh_ and _Theo_.  
The two little kids are already on the table, waiting for one of the two parents to prepare the breakfast. «Hi, papa!» They both exclaim.  
I exchange the greeting and cook the eggs and some bacon stripes. I can hear the two boy already licking their lips.  
_Hersh_ is a smart boy, sometimes crabby but really lively. His crimson eyes are interested and sometimes intimidatory.  
_Theo_, on the contrary, even if, being the youngest, he loves pranks, never makes any and is really obedient and devoted. I believe he's really my son.  
They eat fast and slowly the dish.  
«Where is mum?» _Hersh_ asks.  
«I guess she's still sleeping.» _Theo_ answers before me.  
They tell each other the dream they've dreamed in the night, making me smile and thinking just how much youngsters are lucky.  
«_Hersh_, what've you dreamed?»  
«You go first.» _Hersh_ refuses.  
«OK, but then you'll tell me.—he provokes him smiling and proud—You know, I've seen the specter that saves the village!»  
_A specter? Why is it so familiar!?_  
Then the feminine figure appears, the glasses already dresses. A quiver runs on my back, but I give her the plate with the egg and we kiss again.

[...]

In these weeks I'm _getting used_\- I'm trying to _accept_, to _believe in_... I don't know how to explain myself. I'_ve_... I'm trying to swallow everything, that what I saw (the explosion, the inconclusive researches, the alley) maybe it was just a terrible nightmare, even if waking up aside her, with instantaneous and sudden wrinkles and forgetting ten years of your life is a fact pretty difficult to elucidate. But the chaos arrives now, with the knocking on the door. How do I know? I just know it.  
_Guests?_

Claire doesn't hesitate to open the door, revealing a face not recognizable but still familiar, the black skiver glasses lied on the bridge of the nose framed by crimson locks, behind him a short woman, the legs too thin, with golden curls.  
They both smile at me. «Hershel, how's going?» he asks me, nothing indicates he thinks what I'm thinking right now.  
I tremble, retreat, I'm scared.  
Claire intervenes, joining to them in tormenting me with gazes. «Don't mind him too much, recently he's been... strange.»  
They think I'm a insane, a nutcase. _But maybe it's true?! It's not the first-_ stop Stop STOP! «Stay back!»  
Two pairs of cadaver's eyes that are always plaguing me are now here, together. «Hershel,—Randall approaches—what's wrong—the hand on my shoulder—with-»  
«Away! Get lost!» I push him in an instant.  
I'm not feeling well. _I'm not well._  
I scream. I climb the stairs. I run in the bedroom. I slam the door. I lock it and sigh air, the back on the door.

_It can't be true. It's impossible._  
_It's been ten- twenty years since Randall's fall, Angela's hatred, despite the reconciliatory letter. It's been thirteen (or three?!) years since the declaration of death in absentia. And Angela-_

«I'm scared.» _Theo_ tells me, revealing his presence.  
«What are you doing here?»  
«I'm scared.»  
«Of who?-»  
He rushes in hugging me. «Of everyone!—tears gush from the eyelids noisy—Even Hersh!»  
Then they knock the door. «Hershel, dear, is everything alright?»  
I don't answer.  
She leaves. I hear her telling the Ascots:«Really, I don't know anymore what's happening to him.» She is back in front of the door, the steps more copious.  
I'm scared. But I must deal the problem. «Theo, hide and don't move for any reason.»  
The child nods and fast reaches the wardrobe, _like I would've done in his place_. Claire is back knocking and then I open the door, Randall and Angela waiting with her, their faces worried. Maybe I'm really just crazy.  
«Hershel, can we enter?» Randall asks.  
«Only Claire.» I let her in the room, now locked. Only now I realize how it's small and the air is unbreathable.  
«Dear, you're worrying me a lot recently, you are so strange and different, I don't recognise you anymore...—hiccups and tears—Tell me, are you not happy anymore? We are husband and wife, we have two wonderful children and you're an engineer and everything is alright and... and I am here and...»  
I hug her instinctively, her drops daggers for me, the shirt now wet.  
But immediately she pushes me away. «Then tell me, the problem is me?-»  
«Claire-»  
«_Do you hate me?_»  
«Never!» my voice full of pain, the mere thought fast and damaging like a bullet, the ache in the throat and in the heart.  
«So do you still believe in my existence? Do you acknowledge me? Do you accept me? _Do you love me?_»  
_I only see a corpse._ «I want to ask you something first-»  
«And then you'll promise me to stay here?» She's really anxious, gems of tears shine.  
I avoid the promise. _Forgive me._ «Where is my hat?»  
«The top hat? What does it have to do with this?»  
A thought turns the cog, the last piece completes the jigsaw. I take the kiss in the center of the wall. «You gave it to me ten years ago before the lab run.»  
«And so?»  
«In the picture I don't don it.»  
She sighs. «_And so?_»  
«Why it wasn't there?»  
«What does a stupid hat matter?! Shouldn't you rather think that at least we are married and we can stay together forever?!»  
«Forever?»  
«You know,—she approaches, scaring me—till death do us apart. Or joins us.»  
I move backwards, hitting the base of the bed. I turn, revealing the gurney and her lifeless body. The blood freezes in my veins.  
«Oh right, _her_. But she's of the past, no? You see,—she handles the stretcher, shoving it against the door opened to cosmic nothingness—we can just get shot of her. Does it matter, anymore? This world is what you want, what we both want. Any own wish is granted. Isn't it wonderful, Hershel?»  
My hands tremble. «But that-»  
«Was just a Claire, worldly, mortal, ephemeral, _dead_. But _I_ am here, with you. Isn't it enough?»  
Sweat is cold. «Claire, you're worrying me.»  
«You are the one to worry!—she yells, copious tears—What's wrong with you? Why don't you accept me? Would you rather I was dead-»  
«No!»  
«AND THEN WHY YOU DON'T WANT TO STAY HERE?!»  
«BECAUSE THIS IS NOT REALITY!»

The silence stagnates the place, maybe the principal cause of the disintegration of atoms and space. The light that seeped in the window now is just utter darkness, and yet I can still see what's around me: Claire is in front of me, the rest nonexistent. She seems almost resigned, a sad smile on her lips. «You are right, this is not reality, but it could've been. Or rather, it can be it.»  
I stay silent for a while. «But it's not.»  
«But we can-»  
«Claire, reality can't be controlled!»  
A giving up sigh is left by the tense lungs in the tense air.  
«This world is a figment of your immagination, and as such can have any change you want. I as well—she blocks me, about to reply—do not in fact exist. I exist only in your head, that can be your home, our home. But I see you've changed your mind. Are you sure to leave this place?»  
If I leave, I will not come back and will not see Claire, Randall and this house anymore. «Yes.» And I throw myself from the window, the fall almost like a flight in the void.

And now I see a light: weak, sensitive, but still. I see shapes of furniture and people, the finished borders of the room and the bed in which I'm lied on. I hear the machines, the drops falling for concentration, the breaths and too-far conversations from the livings. I feel the warmth of the covers and of the blood, the itch caused by the gauze and the ache in all the body, muscles too tensed for giving me relief, the head too shaken calls attention, the eyes pained by the life they were deprived until now.

I feel the warmth of other hands, some rough, some young but tired, the vibration of the run in the hallway run on the mattress.  
Now I'm again among the livings, without her.


	20. 23: Song

_**Janice Quatlane POV**_  
«No, no, no!» The man hits with slaps and fists the keyboard, the off-key organ releases its tormented yell spread by the echo, taking place to his complaints and annotations already elaborated earlier.  
Oswald's sudden reaction frightens me, the screams even more atrocious, even if it's the umpteenth time we are trying the introduction of the opera, the unsurmountable problem in the first bars. In the last five hours he's not being reaction differently at hearing my voice, not compatible with his expectations. The actors don't know whether hate the musician, too fussy, or me, not suitable. I just know I'm so ashamed as hell.  
«Da capo!» he repeats again, no one is ready, my throat burns due excessive vibrations, the corners of the mouth ripped by the continue extension.  
Here there are again the notes that are supposed to bring order, even if they are themselves ruled by chaos, an up and down difficult to swallow. Only now Whistler acknowledge the general tiredness is untameable, accomplice is the lack of breaks in between the rehearsal. Only now I note his sweat, accomplice the ardour or madness. He frees the keys, they thank him with a well deserved silence.  
«Fair enough, for today we are done. You can go.»  
Everyone release a relief sigh and go fastly toward the exit. I follow the other actors until I don't hear my name called. Again. I wait for the box to be completely empty, Whistler near the colossal organ staring on the little lamps on. Now the first one dies. «Listen, Janice, your voice is not the one I asked you.»  
«The fact is-»  
«I'd told you to imitate as much as you can Melina's voice, but you're not even trying.»  
I'm feeling offended, but especially hurt. Is tried hundred of times to reach her voice, but it's impossible to me. «I can garantee you I'd tried, Mr Whistler, it's just that it doesn't suit well. I can't modulate it and could ruin-»  
«Melina never ruined a thing, understood?!—he attacks me—And just to remind you, this is an opera in her memory.»  
«I know-»  
«If tomorrow we waste another day stopping in the first bars, I'll be obligated to search for another singer.»  
Acid saliva is swallowed, but some remains cut my throat, suffocating me. I leave the room running, the low-voiced farewell lost in the echo. Tears block completely my respiratory ways. Melina, I've failed.

[...]

I stand up from the grass carpet that hosted me, but apparently it's not been disturbed by my presence.  
The promontory I'm on apparently is with no limits, like the infinite sea and the sky that can be confused with the water.  
I look around, the lack of shadows indicated me desolation.  
Now I see... see...  
Despite the sun on the zenit point, I see, I feel someone is approaching. It's impossible for me to determine the profile, but the voice is enough: a delicate, angelic but firm sound, too weak against the death and the disease. And yet...  
She opens her mouth, but I don't listen to her. I hug her as strong as I can.

_**Melina Whistler POV**_  
Despite being several months now since my first reawakening, I'm still not used to the world I'm in: just the sun ray blinds me, the possibility to stand up again gives me dizziness. I decided to block all the mirrors and the reflective surfaces: even if she's the one to offer her own body for me, I can't help but being disgusted of myself and my father. Anyway I repress these thoughts that can give away my covering. I don the dress Janice would wear and tidy the reddish hair in a pony tail and lay it on the shoulder. Before leaving I close my eyes, take a deep breath and free the vertical surface from the cloth that was hiding it. I can feel the chills when I cross those eyes under my control. I'm feeling like a monster, I'm a monster.  
«Janice—I tell myself, hoping she can hear me from the subconscious—give me a bit more of time and I'll free you.» I smile to myself, a tear spontaneous.  
It's foolish to fear the Death, especially if one lives forever in other's memories.  
I leave the room, ready for the umpteenth take of the opera. The concert will be tomorrow, with the other events. With the diabolic and insane plan my father is following because of my fault.

[...]

Hands are sweaty, as never before now, even when I was sick my heart was not pounding this fast. Right, it's just anxiety and it's absolutely normal, however right now it's not helping at all, rather. I must do the best  
I wear the white light dress, now no problems exist.  
Now I'm the queen of Ambrosia, a music lover that dies before her time for a mysterious disease... Maybe I do am her.  
Curtains are still closed, but I can feel eyes pointed to the stage. What's people hoping to find, here? Finding themselves or a mere moment of freedom, leaving their own problems?  
Dad approaches to me, a secure hand on my shoulder, the smile fake. «Good luck, Janice.»  
I answer to the name given to me immediately in order to not draw suspects. «Thank you, Mr Whistler.»

The little girl, behind his legs, finds there refuge. Our glances cross. I don't know her eyes, but I do know my aura, and I'm positive to feel it.


	21. 24: Stuck

_**Alfendi Layton POV**_

A rattle resound from the terrace, the gun in my hand stable but frozen. The other hand runs toward the hole trembling, gaining only blood and air on the touch.

Keelan doesn't seem to fall, he being hurt a mere masquerade. His weapon is stable and still fuming. He took me in, the bastard took me in.

My body stiffens and falls on the floor, gaining its temperature and warming it with the crimson liquid. Eyelids are dragged down because of gravity, the light no more welcomed in the sight.

Another rattle. A body falls then, more likely lifeless. For short moments apparently someone is dealing with some tools. Follow turbulent vibrations, even closer, even stronger, even faster. A door is been wide opened. Those foot with heels approach frightened. «What had he done...»

She hugs me, the grip tight, suffocating. But then again I'm stuck in my item body: I would reassure her and tell her everything is over, but if I could. And now I no more feel included in the world.

I look around me, moving with difficulty in the darkness, maybe due to prudence, maybe due to confusion. There is no should in there, excluding mine. Or including?

I decide to sit on the ground(of there is really a floor) and wait, being the things to do limited. I remain aware of the surrounding, pointlessly. After only God knows how much I hear a voice. I don't finalise on the voice itself, rather in its words. «I am Alfendi Layton. I am a detective and I am the murdered of Makepeace.»


	22. 25: Minigame

The night was no more young, that even the Sun went too sleep some hours earlier than normal, projecting the obscurity of the unknown side. The houses, before lamps of the urban sky, switched off more and more, until they were camouflage themselves in the dark. Only streets were still clear like constellations for lost wanderers. But a little window was still visible in the landscape, proof that its inhabitants didn't give on the sleep, despite their young age; in fact the nearer window was lit by a candle, but the professor was sleeping, the bare head covered in books on the desk, after trying again to oppose to tiredness, failing miserably.

The nearby room was not yet under sleep's spell, a turning of pages continued to be turned, read and commented.

«But they really give you food if you give back what they've lost?» asked the little girl. The brother could see her eyes sparkle from surprise and happiness.

«Not any food, but fruits, they're healthy.» The little girl cruised her arms frowning; the poor brother couldn't tell if because of the fruits or the doubt. «... OK, maybe someone could give you a tart, of you're lucky, but they usually give you a simple thanks.»

«And what is it? Something to eat?» She really believed it, or maybe just hoped, but her eyes sparked the same; Al was sorry to know the world is not the one Kat sees, for her but even for himself. «Who knows...» He smiled at her, mocking her, entrusting fate.

«Al? Can we read one more?»

«Sure.»

«Thank you! I'm going taking the carillon!» the girl ran toward the golden box, turning the lever, the comb hit the cylinder with imperfect shapes, that at a first glance one could tell to be a work worth for an imbecile, maybe. But the mistakes were in the right place in the right moment and they could be heard, creating a wonderful melody.

Yes, Alfendi was doubtlessly fascinated by destiny or maybe causality; actually at the time he didn't know the difference. He looked curious the gift made by Theodore Phibbs, for the uncle Des. He didn't know at the moment of the relationship between his father and that mechanic, or the mystery behind the double name, but the important is that he prepares good gift, right?

The girl grabbed the book e carelessly turned to the next chapter. Al accompanied the hand for turning the pages delicately.

«Careful, you know this book is old and uncle Luke will be angry knowing it's ruined!»

«Sorry.» she answers, her eyes on the floor.

He felt a bit guilty but he had to give her judgment, no? She had to take care not only for gift but any object. «Well, let's see... What do you think this story is about?»

«A problem in a caffee, right?»

«Exactly.» A glance to the title was enough to repress all doubts, but the picture took him attention, the girl in front of the window familiar. The curl on the brow, the cream dress and the eyes were difficult for him to be recognized: she'd changed a lot from the last time with a dark coat that covered her to the chin, hiding the white jacket and the peach shirt, the hair gathered in a scignon, ready to seal in the ship that would've taken her wherever she wanted: to her home, in France. The professor, in her 18th birthday, so the year before, had asked her which was the greatest request: he was really devoted to her and wanted her happiness; and that was what she'd asked. In fact, seeing the ship ready to go, her eyes were lit by joy, the loosen hair, caressed by the winter breeze, some drops of water cried for her departure, the father hugged her, proud of her. And she went. We hadn't waited much before receiving a letter from her news: in fact—

«Al, can we read?»

He woke up from his thoughts, satisfying his sis reading about misunderstandings, rain, mushrooms and milk.

The little's eyes were now clouded by the eyelids. She tried to ask for the last take, but ended asleep.

«Giodnight, Kat.» He kissed her forehead. He switched off the light and went toward his room, reading rapidly the story of the lost object. It was obvious the culprit was the cat and the case was not that interesting, after all Alfendi was a great impassioned of murders.


	23. 29: Protect

_**Roland Layton POV**_

Hershel is a really introverted and rigid boy, almost like an automaton. With high probability our presence shares him but, after all, having being adopted for mere two weeks and without the brother, it's more than normal being confused and scared of strangers such are we, despite our care and kindness. That would be interesting to fathom what's going on in that child's brain.

He's young, not stupid, especially a child as brilliant as him. And yet he hasn't asked anything about his parents and his brother.

Rather, he doesn't talk at all: only few times where luckly enough to hear his voice, usually as an answer for a puzzle, impulsively. And in those same rate occasions, realizing the fact, the gathers the hands on the lips, stopping the words' flow, his thoughts again unreachable. «He's just homesick.» Lucille said.

Despite his silence, apparently he's upset even, or especially, after twilight: from sunset, he starts stiffing even more, his muscles oxidated, almost as if for hiding his breaths and life's sigh: it's not rare in fact finishing him at 2 am buried in covers or even under the same bed, almost as if for hiding himself from something or someone. The other day night he's closed himself in the wardrobe. He didn't want to get out. «Maybe he's homesick.» Lucille had said.

And tonight won't be apparently that different from the other ones, ruled by the uncomfortable child's silence, his eyes staring on the plate, as if they're travelling over the porcelain, his foot hanged. It's like he's reading something in the sour just served, like when one reads fate with the coffee's waste. His glance is not a good omen, but experience taught me I must not interfere: yesterday he's misunderstood my hug as an evil grip, bolting yelling in his room in tears.

Lucille looks worried, the anxious child upsets her. I reassure her with a hand on the shoulder, reminding her that tomorrow we are visiting the paediatrician. I don't bother to hide the conversation, knowing that Hershel is feel in his vision, away.

We sit on the table. He eats unwillingly the soup, the spoons dragged on the bottom our only company. It's pointless to try to start a conversation with him, he talk even less with us. In the end with being him to the bed, he grips the covers as if they're the closest thing to him, a shield against monsters. We kiss the brow and let him sleep, the candle on the nightstand still lit.

We reach our room, my treasure harmed by worry. I've never seen her so tormented since that time she'd worked with me in that murder, where I must admit that the body was indeed upsetting. Here though there is not homicide, and yet her eyes can't find peace. «But is it really just homesickness?»

«I don't know.» I hug her, the grip strong but reassuring. She hugs on it like ivy and I oblige.

Only now I can feel the heavy weight on my shoulders, what the light of the day and the ephemeral worries had hidden for my wellbeing. Even eyelids are even more onerous, but hers are more tired. «Tonight I will calm him, ok?»

She bows the head, laying on the bed, exhausted. Her hair, somewhere brown and white, because of the light and the age, frames the fresh, comforting and comfortable pillow. «Yes, thank you. You know, it's been days that he can't stop crying in the night. He's inconsolable and he feels lonely. Maybe we should've taken both...»

I sigh, freeing my sense of guilt and resignation. «We've already talked about it, darling, and you know we couldn't and we can't afford it, and besides you've sea Theo is ok. In case in the future we will make them meet. We could contact the Phibbs. How does it sound?»

Her tired smile is enough to me. «Goodnight, darling.»

After some minutes I fall asleep as with her, her shapes lit by the moon impressed on my eyelids.

The image fades. It's replaced with another one, familiar. I find myself in an abandoned house, one of its rooms charred. Oh right, the case of the arson from the kitchen that killed two spouses and their daughter's whereabouts were unknown, now I remember. my silent steps revealed the source of those sobs: the basement. I fastly reach the corner in which she was hidden and reassure her. The little girl is no more frightened, but I still can hear these whimpers.

I wake from the memory. The cry is still there. Instinctively I throw myself toward Hershel's bedroom. There is no sign of him, the bed lacks of the cover. The slow steps reach the ground floor, the complaints more audible and loud. He's in the basement.

As I peer from the door, though, silence swallows all. In the quiet the little frightened heart is almost audible, breaths avoided, tremors barely imperceptible. But they are there, I know it. It's not the first time I witness them, coming by children from troubled families, from questionable, horrible and improbable situations.

Traumatized.

Hershel is one of them? God, how can it be? How can a child in this world becoming son of the violence? What have they done?

I'm in front of the doors of the wardrobe, on the corner green fabric, the edge of the sheet suffocated when the frightened creature tores it, searching for relief. Sometimes it rocks with the wind, other times it trembles for the cold or the comfort it gives.

«Hershel—I whisper—you can go out. No one will hurt you.»

Now the fabric is pulled, abducted by the inside.

The environment is more dark, pure, still.

I peer from the narrow opening between the doors, the extraterrestral the natural lamp. A pair of wide open eyes reveals to me, the eyelids drawn, the pupils dilated, ready to focus the predator; it doesn't let the guard down, trying to stay immobile, pretending to be a statue, a picture, an imagination. Yes, those eyes are not new to me. Sadly. Those are the same of that little girl's, of that memory. How many have I seen them in my life, spending my working days passing among the troubled and not trusty districts, far from being lively, despite being crowded? And those young victims'?

But I would've never said that those eyes would've appeared inside my house.

Hershel is apparently immobile from the start. I caress the wood, he startles, almost waking up. «No one will hurt you.—I assure him, his glance crosses mine, both beneath moon rays—We will protect you.» I can't help but smile, a spontaneous tear washes the cheek. How much has he endured?

If earlier his lips were gathered in a line, now the may untie, still mute.

I'm not afraid to wait, and surely neither Lucille. «Do you want an hug?»

The humidity on the eyes is enough as an answer, but shyly he shakes his head, nodding. Then the doors are opened in an instant, trying to grip as much he could of my robust chest. I return the hug gradually, almost frightened to destroy him under my pression. I rib his back, cares his hair, the tears unstoppable, the tremor a quake, sobs an eruption.

Time stops for several minutes. The hug unties, some tears still trapped in the eyes but easily removable. In the mourn quiet I accompany him in the bedroom. The child reaches the bed, exhausted. In a matter of few seconds I tidy the cover, now free to fly in the wind. Hershel jumps in the soft and fresh mattress, extending himself finding the most comfortable position, and then freezes, as if just recognizing my presence.

«I-I am s-orry for before, mister Layton.»

«No need of apologies.— the voice calm, like the one of a storyteller—You want me to read a bedtime story?»

«No.»

I draw the empty hand from the shelves with books with coloured covers. «You must be tired.»

He lets go by a little yawn, the rest is chewed

It's incredible how a child can be so mysterious. Then sweet dreams.» The goodnight kiss seems reassuring to him. I reach the door, ready to round the corner.

«Wait...»

I turn toward the weak voice.

He seems sleeping, but the eyelids are not completely down. «I must tell you something...»

«Sure, tell me.» I don't know why my hands start to sweat, I just know it's not a good omen.

«You taked the wrong child.»


	24. 21: Girls

At the awakening after the turbulent action of the machine, she quivered with curiosity for an unforeseen event: she looked around, the place unknown, memories in her mind as fragile as her body, almost tore to shreds, pain was maiming her, but not that much to draw her confused mind's attention.  
She didn't know why she was there, but at the same time she did, even if nothing could provide her reliable or complete proofs, a forbidden logic in the science world: instinct, premonition, omen.  
This is not afterlife, or life and neither death for sure. Here she was just waiting, envelopes in the darkness and in no body.  
She was often wondering the name of the place she was, but the mind always told her that she ought to stay silence, that the answer would've revealed by itself, soon or later, in its purest form.  
She didn't know how much had been side her arrival, time too flexible in this dimension for being measured.  
Then she saw a girl far from here, maybe in search of company or solutions like herself. It seemed she'd been walking a lot, and yet there were no signs of tiredness and fatigue. On the contrary, the ash blond hair was still ordinated perfectly, some hung in a chignon and the rest falling; her eyes were like a lighthouse in that immensity, extremely distinguishable and clear, the pendant on the forehead followed her in the procession, in the same fashion life and luminous.  
From the singular pink dress and the accessory on the forehead one could tell she didn't belong to the woman's space and time. It's incredible how they can be so versatile...  
Now those blue lights were pointing on her. She didn't know if she should supposed to feel safe, uncomfortable or worried. Right, she wasn't that alone in this darkness, but that meant someone else was travelling in time, wasn't it? Or had travelled? And a girl, though?! And what the hell was wrong with her eyes!  
«H-hi.» she waved her hand uncomfortably, not knowing how to approach, expecting a salute exchange, revealing inexistent.  
In fact the girl didn't give clue of answers, the skin homogenous on the perfect brow and the lips resting.

«Emh... I am Claire Folley.» She extended completely the hand toward her, but still nothing.  
She didn't looked like she was breathing at all. Rather, none of them was. "But after all what are lungs for when space and time are practically infinite?" Claire thought wrongly.  
She tried with a different approach, introducing herself and hoping for the exchange. «I'm Claire Folley...—she clears her throat for breaking the tension, ribbing the large sleeve—Can I ask you some questions?»  
«I don't have time.»  
«Understandable, considering here it doesn't exist, given we are in a dimention linked with the tetradimensional world only with a thin line made by-»  
«I don't have time for this nonsense. It's time for Domesday.»  
«For what- Hey! Where are you going?!» while she was distancing and Claire was approaching, the figure was dissolving like steam, the features shapeless and gaseous. And she disappeared, leaving nothing behind. «Disappeared?» she looked at her hands and yes, were even more transparent, the environment was living with voices, noises from simple engines, disturbance and frequences from the radios in the cars. The panic was unstoppable and she frantically looked around herself.  
Then the sun gave shape to the park she found herself in just now, blinding her for an instant and leaving its sign. And she recognized the place: London, barely unmistakable, in front of the fountain. She peered the date from a newspaper, then another one for confirming her quivers of joy as valid. And they were.  
«It worked!» Claire thought wrongly.


	25. 27: Fashion (Twisted Fates)

**Teacher Hershel's Layton Journal - Misthallery: day 1**

Now I'm staying in a room in North Ely Hotel, in Misthallery. Yes, for helping Scotland Yard and following my duty as citizen and yada yada yada this and more.

Anyway, now I elaborate why I'm here: apparently a letter has been sent to the police station. And not a common letter...  
The envelope doesn't have any track or odd features, just that's completely typed with a typewriter. Well, maybe the sender Clark Triton has an impossible handwriting like me.  
Neither the paper has something special: a white sheet where few informations have been tracked, but a story that goes beyond imagination. In a nutshell, apparently this specter is terrorizing the town and demolishing streets and quarters during the night. And, clearly, the Yard that doesn't believe in "these bravados" ought to entrust such an odd case to such an odd man. Good choice.  
I mean, fair enough, I teach philosophy in a high school, but this doesn't mean that I believe in fairies and gnomes!  
What caught my attention and lured me to continue the search is the second message hidden in the letter, made with the first digit of each line. "Helpsos". Too well made for being a simple prank...

Arrived in Misthallery in few hours, we've found part of the buildings wiped out, the weeps and the yells still filled the empty heights. In the air just the sentence «The Specter! It wants all of us dead!» I'd already known they were pretty superstitious habits, but I would'ven't said they could actually believe it.

I've investigated a bit asking questions to the inhabitants and guess what? They told me they hear a flute playing when the Specter disappears in the mist! Just a coincidence? Probably not, giving the fact that it's all in the Specter's fashion, like in the story.

Anyway we managed to visit Clark and apparently he was oblivious about the letter we've received... peculiar, identity theft? Maybe I'm just speculating, but the matter is even more interesting.

Being arrived in Misthallery late, we've decided —Emmy and I— that tomorrow morning we're consulting the town's Inspector, a certain Levin Jakes, also known as "Third Eye": apparently he's an able detective that can close his cases really fast. Particular the high rank of suicides and incidents in this town, though...

**_Theodore Bronev POV_**  
The fog draws a condolence veil on the present and future ruins, the grey sky and humidity make the environment more stagnant.  
Today is not an exploration night: I'm in the office owned by a Levin Jakes one, a bastard not different from that Hawks, both leeches and bent. I say this is a motive enough worthy for executing him. He had it coming.

The slow obese's foot make themselves notice even from fifty meters, the hallways lack of stranger steps. The tossed and shaken keys unlock the door that opens with remarkable complaints, exactly like the wooden pavement, under pressure. The man doesn't bother in switching on the light: the lamps must have been burnt by months by now because of his sloth, a candle should suffice. He sits panting on the chair, the backside makes it scream and plead for mercy, he deaf of its troubles. He starts ransacking the documents shattered on the desk with no pattern, folders only equate with the red writing "case closed". Yes, closed with an accident or a suicide, there is any difference at all? Only in few there is the name of an innocent called as culprit, just for extinguishing suspects.  
Those files are thin, skinny, the pictures ineffective, the proof mustered poor, the deduction a waste, a rubbish in the wrong place. «A way, must find a way... this fucking Specter...» the beast babbles, the nails in the papers, almost as if gathering the words, an excuse that casually makes sense, a verdict in his behalf.  
No, he is not the "Third Eye", but he is a mortal man, corrupted, not that far from Targent, not that far from Hawks; all of them belonging to the same race: bastards. Curiously they all have to have a nickname that refers to their acute sight and insight. Ridiculous.  
He is a man that doesn't deserve mercy, a thief, a clown that makes this already mad world a circus.

He continues pointlessly his work with the documents and doesn't detect my presence, being perfectly cryptized with the darkness of the wardrobe, the breaths mute, the noose kept in my left hand, ready for action. The silence of the wings tells me I'm not in danger, that I can go anytime. I reach stealthy his back, I hasten in taking the dagger, the blade reaches the throat before he can react. «Don't move.»

He realized the ambush, his shoulders barely lifted, the freezing cold proven by the dancing curtains. «W-who are you?» he asks me, the mouth wide open speechless, the voice trembling. _Weak._

«I'm the Specter.» sternly I answer ironically. _Yes, it exists, I exist._

His shoulders lift almost ready to laugh, few chuckles escapes him. What a worrying incontinence. Then he realizes who has not the leverage, the upper hand. «What do you want from me?! I-I can give you anything! I can pay you any prize!»

_A delirious man, that's what you are._ «You'll give me anything I want?»

«Y-yes.»

«And any prize?»

«I said yes! Now wanna tell me what the fuck you want?!» he trembles even more and sweats a lot: he's growing impatient. He can't stop gazing under the desk, where he has placed for several years an emergency switch: pushing it causes the arrival of fifteen patrols ready to suppress the stranger. As if I haven't already noticed that threat.

«You just have to follow my orders.—I wait some seconds—Stay still and don't dare to turn around.» I slowly draw down the blade, he trembles in fear and determination.

As he realizes he has green light, he throws under the table for reaching his salvation. And he does, but remain just with incredulity and little oxygen n the lungs.

I toss his toward me, the noose enveloped completely the throat. The right hand keeps the crazy beast and the feet pushes on its back in order to tame it. It doesn't take long before he faints. Now I can work with no bothers. I lay the animal on the table, I tie the rope on the beam right above the king's chair, pressing for few instants on the throne's pillow. In the end I let the gravity do the rest: the man wakes up when everything is already set, _spes ultima dea_, he turns, making the chair fall, signing his destiny. He tosses, agitates the legs terribly, cyanosis on the face, like a bug trapped under a glass. I'm surprised the beam can lift all that weight. Anxiety steals him all the air, that little that was present in the bags. The brains dies, as if it was not already.

I leave a message on the typewriter, it can be seen as a farewell letter, I don't care.  
victim's name: levin jakes  
cause of death: strangulation  
motive: suicide  
CASE CLOSED


End file.
